"to the sirens first shalt thou come, who bewitch all men."--homer, odyssey
i hear him chant
the fluid notes
that wash the atmosphere blue
and for the life of me,
i let the color vegetate
with the softness of his singing.
where are the avian wings,
the dreaded fangs that suit
shipwrecked sailors' tales of destruction?
his human fullness
with his gift of voice
spells a stormy sadness
in its gravest form.
how is it that beyond wise men's comprehension,
the pleasure of demise is an unfounded truth?
it serves me right for i am seduced;
my landing home
necessitates his siren's song.
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